


Four times Bodie bet on a dead cert, and one time he took long odds

by ML Mead (moonlightmead)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: 5 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightmead/pseuds/ML%20Mead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles; five stages of Bodie's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four times Bodie bet on a dead cert, and one time he took long odds

Now that he was fourteen, William was old enough to be trusted and young enough to escape attention. The perfect age to carry the bet money to Charlie Arras, unlicensed bookmaker and purveyor of equine-mediated optimism to the masses.

Of course, the trouble with streets where you knew everyone was that everyone knew you. And however instinctively you fight, two Maclarens beat one Bodie. Not that Charlie Arras saw it that way.

When his father agreed to sign the forms for cadet school, William knew he was onto a winner. Life was bound to be better at sea. Dead cert.

* * *

_This is shit._

Seaman Bodie stared at Dakar from the rail of the ship. The glories of the star-spattered night sky were one thing, but the rest of it...

Shitty ship. Shitty food. Shitty pay. Shitty cargo. No space at the table. No space in the bunk. No space to get away from people.

_If these people don't stop mithering me, there's going to be trouble. Even if kicking off gets me... kicked off._

He thought back to the captain's threats, his comments about truculent teenagers. And space. He needed space.

_Space... Africa's big, isn't it?_

Yeah, Africa. Dead cert.

* * *

It would be _fine_. It wasn't like he was actually a _mercenary_ or anything, was it? He had just been hired as a sort of... _escort_... after all. An escort with a gun, sure. But everyone out here wore a gun. It didn't mean they were going to turn into hired gunslingers like in the westerns he'd seen at the Astoria as a kid.

And he knew what was in the jeeps. Well. Most of them.

There was no way he was in over his head. Absolutely not. When he'd been offered the job, he'd been sure. Really. Dead cert.

* * *

He'd had to draw a veil over his activities in Africa. The recruiting officer hadn't been over-curious about that, though. While school leavers and college leavers were more common, the army still had space for a few in their twenties. What the recruiter was looking for, Bodie realised, was the ability to think independently while adhering to the all-important chain of command.

Hierarchy. Discipline. Regimentation. Yeah. Bodie could do that. Order. Polish. Straight face. Sign here. On the dotted line. Neatness. No backchat.

This would be his career for life. He could take it. They could take him. Dead cert.

* * *

Madness. Complete madness.

All those sensible – he'd thought – decisions in his life. All that rationalisation of past choices. And now, in CI5, both sanity and rationality were deserting him.

Doyle. Ray fucking Doyle. His partner of a year and a few months. His taunting, flaunting, flirting, _fucking_ partner. Eyes, limbs, posture, arse, all hinting.

If Doyle didn't know what he was broadcasting, the he had only himself to blame. And Bodie would be willing to blame him as much as himself, as he took the biggest risk of his fucking life. On surely the longest odds.

Weren't they?


End file.
